thecyoaprojectfandomcom-20200215-history
Missed
from Charm You hardly ever even eat donuts, the sugary fat just makes you feel sick. You already know you'll have to spend some time at the gym today to work off the two halves of a donut you just ate now. Carefully, you squeeze them together into your hand, into one congealed mass of pastry. The trash can is full, and wrappers and coffee cups are emerging forth, as if it were lava and the can was a volcano. The sight is disgusting, and you are briefly glad that you'll never have to walk past it ever again. Standing next to the can, there stands a ragged looking homeless man. The sight of him disgusts you more than the trash can. He reeks of a combination of sweat, feces, and whiskey. Kind of like your Uncle Bill did, before he died of alcohol poisoning on your 12th Birthday. “Hey sir, are you going to throw that out?” He asks, spittle flying everywhere. “Yeah.” You say, refusing to make eye contact. “Can I have it? I'm really hungry.” He asks, holding out his dirty hands. Your brow furrows. “Fucking beggars.” You say hatefully, and give the glob of sugar-bread a lob towards the can. However, you miss. Terribly. It lands on the ground. “What the fuck, dude? I ask you for some food you were going to throw out anyway, and you throw it on the ground? What the hell is your problem?” He asks, his voice carrying a feral, growly sort of sound to it. Not that you're scared, you've been boxing for years, and you can bench 325 pounds. If he were to try something, you figure that you can handle yourself. “Fuck off, beggar. I'm not giving you street urchins anything.” You say, and begin walking away. “Beggar? Is that what you think I am? I'm a fucking vet, asshole. I fought for your freedom. And now you do this?” He says, but you ignore him. “Thanks for your service, now piss off.” The next thing you know, you feel yourself being pulled into an allyway between your office building and a warehouse. Traffic on the streets is surprisingly light, and nobody is around to call out to for help. There's now another homeless guy, the one who apparently pulled you in, standing in front of you. This guy looks younger, but just as haggard. “I believe you owe my comrade an apology.” He says. This guy has an unsettling smile on his face that sets your hair on edge. “Do I need to kick your ass?” You ask, getting into a boxing stance. Perhaps because he saw this, the new homeless man breaks his smile just long enough to spit in your face. You are instantly enraged, and throw a punch. Unbelievably, he dodges it like you were barely moving. “Last chance, apologize.” That damn smile is back. Like your attempt at a punch wasn't even good enough to actually inconvenience him. “FUCK YOU!” You shout, and go for a quick jab. It's like punching air. Two quick motions of his arms that you can barely even see, and you know he broke your wrist. And still smirking too, that fucker. “Apologize?” He asks again. But you barely hear him. Unfettered rage descends upon you, and with your operational hand, you go for another punch. But before your hand can even fully ball up, his shoulder finds its way into your jaw, and you reel backwards. “Give up?” He says, but you respond with a roar and charge forward. This time he doesn't simply dodge or parry. As you rush towards him, he leaps to the right, and brings a riot baton into contact with the squishy part on the back of your head. You watch the world move in slow motion as you collapse to your knees, and pathetically become one with the pavement. Your fall onto your back from a kneeling position, and drool a little bit. Your assailant stands over you, smiling. His homeless friend stands next to him. “Normally” the younger one begins, “homeless guys don't kill people we're mugging. I haven't killed anybody since Iraq, back in the good old days. But you know what? Something about that stupid, suburbanite, wanna-be, bitch-ass, 'I saw Fight Club 37 times so now I'm tough' mentality just makes me sick to my stomach. You limp wristed, self-centered, worthless pile of human excrement, I'm going to do the world a favor here and just fucking kill you. Got it?” Painfully, you open your eyes, and moan. The two of them take turns stomping on your body, and to top it off, the young guy gives you three nice swipes to the face with his riot baton. The world goes black, then tastes like blood, then goes black again. While you were fading in and out, a woman from your building on a smoke break comes over to see what all the commotion is. She yells for the police when she sees the situation, and the homeless guys scatter. After the massive smashes your head took, your brain begins bleeding profusely inside your skull. Some parts are not receiving enough blood, and some are literally drowning in it. You stay on the ground, not quite in a coma, but close enough. While you continue spewing blood inside your head, somebody runs up and asks you if you are ok. Deprived of oxygen, and therefore functioning brain cells, you open your eyes and notice the person asking you is black. Due to the head trauma, you mistake her for Bill Cosby. And, while your brain withers and dies in your head, you begin doing your best Bill Cosby imitation, as it seems like a good idea to your fatally wounded brain. Your last words before you die are “Jello! Jello! Jello!” (as it turns out, you do a terrible Cosby imitation) and this is etched into your gravestone, much to your mother's chagrin. The moral of this story? Be nice to homeless people. If you think you've learned it, maybe you should try again ?